


Carousel of Peacocks

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Corporate Intrigue, F/M, Gen, Hidden truths, Murder Mystery, No One's Innocent, fraternal relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-08 00:44:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14093313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: 2CT Modern AUWhen the mysterious killing of second sons sweeps through the gilt-lined streets of Belgravia, Detective Thomas Faust (and younger twin of the illustrious Lord Ciel Phantomhive) is called on to solve these heinous crimes.“If you weren’t my brother I would have shot you by now.” Ciel sneered.“Yes, and lose your influence over Scotland Yard? I doubt it. You’re far too pragmatic to be impulsive brother of mine.” He finished his plain tea with a reluctant look of distaste. “How can you drink this? It’s absolute leaf water.”Ciel ignored him, preferring to shift his focus to the black leather suitcase beside him. “Yes, well, if you’re done complaining then perhaps we can get to the crux of the situation at hand.”“You're dying and want to give me your funeral plans so you won’t be buried like a 19th century peasant.”“Close, but not quite.” Ciel smirked.





	1. The Carnival Begins

“He’s already murdered four victims but these three are different,” Thomas observed, “they’re the second sons of high ranking lords. If word gets out that these kills were done by the same killer we’ll get skewered by the press, public, and most likely the prime minister as well.”

Abberline frowned. “How can you tell it’s the same killer?” He glanced at the crime scene photos. “There’s nothing consistent about these kills—the first four were messy, unplanned homicides. I mean, just look at this—” his mouth twisted in a pained grimace at the sight of the mangled body of a 25 year old bookkeeper, "he stabbed Quinten Jones 77 times, Faust. That’s _rage,_ plain and simple, but here,” Abberline gestured to the three neat stacks on the conference table, “ _this_ is cold, methodical elimination. No overkill. Just...practicality.”

“So there’s no physical similarities,” Thomas replied breezily, “but you’re missing something obvious.”

Frederick “Fred” Abberline looked back down at the photographs again. “The MO—“

“Forget the MO.” Thomas rolled his eyes. “Look at the addresses. Seven people. Seven murders. All hailing from the West London district of Belgravia.” The sapphire eyed detective quirked a brow. “Their blood bleeds blue, Abberline, and I refuse to believe in coincidence. The killer—whoever he is—chose these last three victims specifically. Second sons of wealthy lords, scions, and business tycoons.” 

“And the other four?”

“Acquaintances.” The detective smirked. “Associates—people he’s familiar with. He was provoked into attacking the previous four but the efficiency of his most recent kills suggests he is capable of self control, restraint, and some degree of higher intelligence. These second sons here,” he pointed at the butchered bodies, “knew our killer. They interacted with him regularly and must not have seen anything off-putting about our Belgravia-oriented object of pursuit.” His lips curled into a thin smile.

His partner ignored it. 

“You think he worked for them?” Abberline picked up the police report and frowned. “No, that’s not right.” He murmured. “They all have different employers—“

“True,” Thomas interrupted just as the last rays of sunset hit the conference room windows. The sharp cut of Thomas Faust’s jaw—his milk pale skin, aristocratic features, and appraising sapphire blue eyes—were set aflame by the orange sun. He was an impossibly beautiful young man of delicate health whose constitution was well hidden by the director of Scotland Yard. They couldn’t afford to lose the boy’s keen mind—his ability to infer, observe, and deduce in a manner that was both rigid and flamboyant. His sharp tongue and caustic temper, however, were two concessions the Yard was willing to put up with—so long as he kept their record of solved cases high.

And right now, Frederick Abberline mused, they needed him more than ever.

“Are you paying attention Underline?” 

“It’s _Abberline._ ” He snapped, knowing full well that this forgetfulness was entirely feigned. Thomas had long since gotten passed his “pardon, what was your name again?” threshold and now did it solely to annoy his partner of two years. And, in Abberline’s personal opinion, it was a rare example of Thomas’s camaraderie considering he rarely joked with anyone else at the office—sharp quips not withstanding.

And to his credit, Thomas merely waved away his protests with an amused half-smirk before he returned to the matter at hand. “Whatever.” He motioned towards the photographs again. “They don’t work for the same company but their employment records clearly state—“ 

“Wait, when’d you get access to their work records—?”

“I was bored on a Tuesday night.” Was the nonchalant answer and Abberline wasn’t sure if he was serious or not. Nonetheless, he stayed quiet, willing him to continue. “The last four victims here all had interactions—whether direct or indirect—with a company known as Astre Holdings, a subsidiary of the Funtom Corporation.”

“And the most recent kills?” He observed the clean cut executions of Richard Bryton, Philip Loudain, and Andrew Carlisle. “None of them were, strictly speaking, employed. Bryton and Loudain were socialites and Carlisle was, by all means, his brother’s pet.” He admitted in a hasty whisper.

The rivalry between between Alexander Carlisle and his younger, less impressive brother Andrew was common (albeit unspoken) knowledge. Alexander, as the elder, had won control of the family company leaving Andrew embittered and angry. The boy had (after getting rip-roaring drunk and humiliating himself in all the London tabloids) all but exiled himself to his penthouse in Belgravia and hadn't been seen since. 

Looking up, Abberline saw an expression of contemplation of Thomas’s face. He had no idea how the man was able to remain so still—so calm—even whilst looking at the mass butchering of innocents and suspected, with vague unease, that it was more than just a strong stomach.

“I have a theory,” Thomas began in a measured, cool tone that reminded Abberline of polished platinum. “But it’s rather underdeveloped. I have a few inquiries to make before I’ll be able to confirm anything for sure.”

"Yes, well, we do need this arrest to be _legal._ ” He stressed the last word, knowing that his partner had rather…creative methods of apprehending suspects. Right before killing them. “And take that bodyguard with you—what was his name? Michaels?”

“Michaelis.” Thomas corrected with an expression of disdain. “ _Sebastian_ Michaelis. French—and very quaint.”

 

* * *

 

Saint-Saëns _The Swan_ began to play, the swells and harmonies blending together to form a brief love story of sound and vision as the players danced in their silks and satins. Ciel Phantomhive stood on the highest perch of a darkened balcony, completely removed from the fray with a flute of Cheval Blanc in hand. The heady, aromatic plate of vintage red tasted rich on the tongue—a mixture of wild berries and lime leaves lingered in his mouth as he continued to observe the twirling masses, so oblivious in their state of inebriated joy. The foolish women with their frosted cake dresses, the beguiled men in their waistcoats and tentative honor.

In the velvet dark Ciel hid a laugh, eyes twinkling with mischievous delight as he observed a rather ruddy faced buffoon conversing with his ever lovely Aunt Ann. Oh, Ciel could see how that idiot was preening under the Madam's crimson gaze—a fool who simply couldn’t believe his luck that someone so cultured, so _beautiful_ , would be speaking to him for more than half a minute.

Ciel knew exactly what was going to happen and was waiting for the man’s faux pas when the scent of nectarines and sunshine filled the darkness.

_Elizabeth._

He felt her lithe arms wrap around his waist as she embraced him from behind, one rosy cheek pressing against his right shoulder. He could just envision the sleek Alexander McQueen gown he’d insisted she wear hours before: a slinky, low cut confection of wild violet silk that showcased his fiancée’s sensuous curves—the gentle swell of her breast, the impossibly small dip of her waist, and the bell curve of her hips. Ciel was quite proud of his bride-to-be’s physical beauty, of the envy it evoked in women and the lust it provoked in every man. He thought it a wonderfully funny thing to see the masses froth at the mouth whenever he and Elizabeth passed by them, looking for all the world like the spoiled aristocrats they were.

He let out a low, rich chuckle and Elizabeth, with her dreamy sighs and pretty words, moved to face him. “Tell me you haven’t been here all night.” Her voice, the loveliest articulation of honey and emerald, chided sweetly.

In that moment he could see why she'd said yes to him. There were, after all, so few gentleman left in this world.

“You might be disappointed by my answer.” He replied, kissing her strawberry mouth with a hint of devilish delight. His teeth nipped her lower lip and she sighed, plucking the wine glass from his hand and taking a slight sip.

Her eyes widened. “And you pilfered your father’s 1928 vintage!”

“It’s not like he was ever going to drink it himself. Mother detests red wine and she’s the one who plans the supper menus at home.”

“She does set a beautiful table.” Lizzy agreed with a dreamy smile, further reinforcing Ciel’s belief that she was the last of the Old World beauties.

Dainty, delicate, sweet, and cheerful—Elizabeth loved pretty things, had never seen an unbecoming sight, and never spoke an unbecoming word. She was ignorant, Ciel smiled, so unaware of the world and willing to believe just about anything he said.

It was a wonderful indulgence to hold her captive. 

“Tell me, how many hearts have you broken waltzing down there?” He had already seen Lizzy being carried off by Charles Grey, Edgar Redmond, Soma Asman Kadar, and, strangely enough, a young, brash lawyer by the name of Ronald Knox.

His bride-to-be laughed delicately. “Oh I don’t think any of them were interested in marrying me tonight.” She teased. “Grey was infuriating, Edgar was lovely, Soma was too sweet, and that orange haired fellow—the one with the bright green eyes?—he seemed more interested in asking about _you_ than actually waltzing with me.” She laughed a little more and Ciel gave her a smile as he processed that bit of information.

 _How peculiar,_ he mused, _except—that would now explain Mr. Spears’ appearance at this ball tonight._

He sneered.

That trussed up, fuddy-duddy corporate lawyer his father insisted on hiring at Uncle Diedrich’s insistence. Ciel grimaced. He hadn’t planned on working tonight but it couldn’t be helped. Events such as these inevitably brought vermin into the house.

“Ciel?”

“What is it, darling?” His voice was teasing and sweet—the same voice he used whenever mother was cross or wanted to know where he was. “Don’t tell me you’re tired already.” He kissed her forehead.

“No,” she set the wine glass down on the wide railing behind her, suddenly hesitant. 

From the corner of his eye, Ciel saw it was half past eleven and a quick glance at the darkened corner of the ballroom signaled that it was time to depart. 

One slim hand came to tug on his jacket lapel. 

He glanced down, slightly surprised to see the nervousness in his fiancée's features. 

“Ciel I know it’s wretched of me to ask but I…I think it’s necessary now.” Lizzy’s voice was slow and tentative and Ciel was immediately on edge. His sweet little fiancée looked so very concerned, wringing her hands and biting her lip that Ciel wasn’t quite sure _what_ he would do if she asked a question she wasn't supposed to. 

He couldn’t very well kill her. 

She, after all, wasn’t like the others.

He settled for charm instead, lips stretching into a slight smile reminiscent of his father. “Tell me, sweetling—what bothers you so?” He cooed.

Their eyes met and her cheeks flushed pink.

“Oh Ciel I know you don’t care for Edward but Nora is so very lovely and she’s invited us to lunch and I couldn’t very well tell her no so I—“ she paused, looking so horribly embarrassed that Ciel wanted to laugh.

 _Of course_ Lizzy’s concerns would center around luncheons and garden parties—he was a fool to think otherwise.

He’d chosen the perfect fiancée and his judgement was never wrong.

“Of course darling.” He acquiesced easily. This was a very small concession for him to make. Yes, he and Edward Midford had never gotten along but Ciel could suffer through one luncheon with him and his wife if it meant an easy escape from the party surrounding them. “Where will we be dining?”

“Belgravia. Edward and Nora finally finished their renovations and Nora wants my opinion on the sitting room—she’s chosen a Regency green but I think honeydew compliments the floorboards better. We’ll see when we get there.” She smiled and Ciel nodded, half-wondering if Edward would even be able to tell the difference. 

Nevertheless, he held his tongue and made a show of enthusiasm before Polaris appeared with a gruff “pardon me, sire” and Ciel knew it was time.

“I’ll call on you tomorrow, dearest.” Ciel pressed a kiss to her lips and then, in a show of old world gallantry, gave a sweeping bow and another kiss to the palm of her hand. “Till then, my lady.”

She laughed and gave a little curtsey. “Of course, _my lord._ ” She replied in a teasing tone of voice, not noticing how Ciel preened at the title.

“You’ll be a countess soon, Lizzy.” He vowed and bid her goodbye, not noticing the way her eyes flashed with a brief hint of concern before he and Polaris exited Phantomhive Manor.

“They’ve found the bodies.” Polaris muttered under his breath as they walked towards a plain Rolls Royce. “The Yard’s bound to catch on sooner or later.”

“I’ll bet on the latter.” Ciel replied easily as Polaris held open the door for him. “In any case, we’ll need to give Detective Faust a proper welcome.”

 

* * *

 

“Brother dearest you’re breaking my heart.” Ciel smiled pleasantly as Thomas Faust, detective, swept into the room.

“Have I? An accomplishment for the ages,” he replied blithely.

“Oh you’ve grown _colder,_ Astre.” He sounded positively delighted.

Thomas ignored him, preferring instead to sip from the porcelain teacup that held impeccably brewed Earl Grey. He frowned. “It’s not sweet.”

Ciel smiled.

“Why isn’t it sweet?”

“Because not all of us are gluttonous heathens who prefer sugar and anonymity to salt and prestige.”

His brother’s lips quirked up in a cruel imitation of a laugh. “You’re still bitter about my chosen profession brother of mine?”

“To be honest I don’t really care what you do.” Ciel crossed his legs and leaned back in his armchair, looking for all the world like a fiend angelical. “It’s a matter of propriety, little brother, that’s all.” He scolded lightly.

“Is it?” He reached for the dessert tower, plucking two chocolate covered madeleines from the platter and placing them on his saucer.

Ciel grimaced. “Really? It’s not even _five_ —“

“You put them there.”

“For _decor_ not actual consumption. You’ll die before you’re thirty if you keep this up.”

“Will I?”

“Won’t you?”

“A question with a question?” He rolled his eyes. “How _dull._ ”

“A predictable scoff of derision combined with an undignified eye roll? How _tedious._ ”

The two stared each other down, one with eyes the color of the Atlantic, the other with a smile that could freeze over hell.

Ciel met his brother’s eyes.

Thomas arched a brow.

“You’ve been away far too long, Astre.”

“I suppose,” the younger twin acknowledged, “though, I am rather impressed.”

“Oh?”

“Quite. You haven’t grown any uglier, big brother.” He finished his madeleine before turning his eye to the dessert platter. “You haven’t got any cake.” He looked up. “Where’s the cake?”

Ciel sighed. “I’m not serving cake at four forty-five in the evening.”

“Why the bloody hell not?”

“Because I’m not yet married. I’d like to go on a honeymoon before dying as a diabetic.”

“Well,” he took a bite of his second madeleine, “it’s hardly my fault you’re as personable as the dead.”

“ _Astre.”_

The detective grimaced. “Ah, back to the childhood nicknames?”

“That is your _birth_ name—“

“A ridiculous name if I ever heard of one. _Astre Phantomhive._ Ashtray Phantomhive. What was mother thinking when she named me?”

“That your deformed head looked the exact image of an ashtray. Mother named us as she saw us.”

“So you were a malformed seal and the hospital simply misspelled your name?”

“If you weren’t my brother I would have shot you by now.” Ciel sneered.

“Yes, and lose your influence over Scotland Yard? I doubt it. You’re far too pragmatic to be impulsive brother of mine.” He finished his plain tea with a reluctant look of distaste. “How can you drink this? It’s absolute _leaf water._ ”

Ciel ignored him, preferring to shift his focus to the black leather suitcase beside him. “Yes, well, if you’re done complaining then perhaps we can get to the crux of the situation at hand.”

“You're dying and want to give me your funeral plans so you won’t be buried like a 19th century peasant.”

“Close, but not quite.” Ciel smirked.

Long, elegant fingers sorted through various documents and photocopies before pausing at one particular folder, slightly crumpled, and scribbled on with black Sharpie. “Richard Bryton. Name sound familiar?”

His brother, having just poured himself another cup of tea, pulled two sugar packets from his left coat pocket. “Vaguely.”

Ciel barely managed to contain his look of disgust as his brother polluted perfectly good earl grey with Jamaican sugar.

“How can you possibly drink that and not feel the incoming nausea?”

“Well I suppose it’s because I have a strong stomach. After all, I grew up staring at your face didn’t I?” Astre smiled innocently.

Ciel resisted the urge to throttle his younger twin. “Nevertheless,” he ground out, “we have a situation on our hands. While Richard Bryton in and of himself was a blundering buffoon and moronic glutton, his family name still commands a great deal of attention. His brother, Lord Stephen, has decided to conduct an ongoing private investigation to look into the circumstances surrounding his brother’s death.”

“The Yard will never allow it.” Astre sneered. “The case is ours. Private investigators have no place interfering.”

“Yes but when one is born a Bryton, one is born with a head stuffed full of cotton. Reason has no place when we talk about them or have you forgotten that basic fact?”

“I haven’t forgotten but I’d thought they’d at least have a modicum of common sense.” Astre crossed his legs, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “I suppose you want me to put a stop to the matter?”

“As always you astound me with your capacity for deduction.” Ciel returned dryly. “But I also have another request—“

“Can I expect payment on this one? Or at the very least a momentary ceasefire from your incessant phone calls?”

Ciel let out a sharp, ironic bark of laughter. “You’re in a rather frivolous mood aren’t you brother?”

“Didn’t think so.” Astre muttered under his breath. “Yes, well—what do you want now?”

“My fiancée, Elizabeth—“

“I know who she is,  _brother,_ I grew up with her too.”

“Childhood infatuation aside—“

“I am not infatuated with her!” Astre’s cheeks colored pink and he promptly returned to stealing the last three madeleine’s from his brother’s tea tray. “Just—get on with it.”

“Yes…” the elder Phantomhive smirked, “well, Elizabeth has been receiving a number of odd letters and items in the mail,” Ciel slid a plain manilla folder towards Astre, “Polaris managed to intercept them before she actually read any of these missives but the intent is clear.” Astre picked up and began scanning through the confiscated mail with an expression of ice-cold apathy. “Brother,” Ciel leaned forward, “there is someone who wants my fiancée dead.”

“I can see that.” Astre returned, eyes fixed on the documents at hand.

To any outsider, his brother would have looked the picture of disinterested boredom.

To Ciel, this was Astre at his most alert. Focused, sharp, _aware._

“I need to find out who.” Ciel continued, producing a gold-plated cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket. “I have, over these past few years, accumulated quite a few enemies and Elizabeth isn’t known for staying out of the limelight. She’s an easy target.” He lit up a Marlboro. 

“Your concern is touching.” 

He exhaled a plume of pale grey smoke. “My concern is no business of yours.” 

“I’ll need that briefcase.” Astre returned, eyes fixed on the black valise sitting by Ciel’s ankles.

“May I inquire as to why?”

“Considering you’re a nosy bastard who’s going to do whatever he damn well pleases—“

“I think you’re describing yourself more than me—“

“But since you asked _so_ very politely,” Astre continued blithely, “these deranged love letters could be connected to the serial killer we’re tracking down at the Yard. The very one who murdered Richard Bryton as well as Philip Loudain, Andrew Carlisle, and four others in the Belgravia district.”

“I see. How very stressful.” Ciel tapped the ash from his cigarette into his teacup saucer. “You don’t—?”

“No. I’ll need to talk to Elizabeth myself—“

“I’ll phone her—“

“I still have her number.” Astre interrupted coolly though Ciel didn’t miss the flash of thinly veiled rage in his brother’s eye.

The elder Phantomhive made a sign of concession. “Very well. _You_ phone her. I have a business call with China in half an hour and oh, do try and keep Elizabeth from slipping her guards again. It’s becoming quite frustrating.”

Astre glowered. “Do I look like a babysitter?”

“Well you’re babyfaced and you’re sitting down…”

“I’m only here to investigate.”

Ciel smirked. “And investigate you shall. Who knows little brother, this might be an enlightening experience for the both of us.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I also had our!Ciel choose the name Thomas as part of his pseudonym because in Greek the name means 'twin'. It also, ironically enough, refers to both Saint Thomas Aquinas (a Catholic priest who argued that reason can only be found in god) and Thomas Hobbes (who wrote the now famous Leviathan that stated the only true power that exists is the power of man). I thought our!Ciel would relish in the dichotomy. 
> 
> Well I posted a snippet of this fic on Tumblr and a few of you seemed to find it entertaining so here's the first full chapter! Thank you all so much for reading the random au's I come up with/not thinking I'm psychotic LOL
> 
> Feel free to tell me your thoughts below!


	2. The Joker, The Harlequin, The Ringmaster

“Do you have something against Ciel Phantomhive or are you just being needlessly petty again?” Abberline questioned as they reviewed the investment portfolio of Astre Holdings.

Thomas Faust didn’t even glance up. “Why would you think that?”

“Er—besides the constant scowls, derisive remarks, insults, and commentary…” he trailed off purposefully. “This isn’t going to be a conflict of interest for you, is it?”

“No.”

“Faust—“

“You can’t tell me you admire a man whose company has all but lumbered along since his ascension as chief executive now can you?”

Abberline glanced at Funtom’s neat, healthy balance sheet. “What are you talking about? Phantomhive’s been doing a decent enough job—“

“Yes, a _decent enough_ job.” Had he been another man, Abberline is sure there would have been air quotations around 'decent enough'. “He’s a _Phantomhive._ When his predecessor ruled Funtom profits doubled at a rate never seen since the Roaring Twenties. And now,” he sneered disgustedly at the balance sheet numbers, “everything’s equalized. Stabilized.” 

_Fallen to mediocrity._

Abberline was confused. “Isn’t stability a good thing?”

“Not when you’re a Phantomhive. They’re either destined for greatness or murder and so far, I’m willing to bet on the latter.”

“You can’t just insinuate that the chief executive of a Fortune 500 company is a serial killer simply because his company revenue has stabilized.”

The blue-haired man thumbed through a stack of files before pulling out an income and cash flow statement. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that the only commonality Bryton, Loudain, and Carlisle shared were their investments in Astre Holdings?”

“You want us to launch an investigation on the fourth richest man in England, the ninth richest man in the whole of Great Britain, because three men happened to invest in an _investment company?_ ” He emphasized, half-torn between walking out of the conference room and ignoring Faust altogether.

“An investment company that Phantomhive just so happens to own.” Thomas corrected smoothly.

Abberline felt his blood pressure spike. “Right—yes, of course. Should we go and call up Richard Fuld [former chairman of the world’s largest investment bank Lehman Brothers who allowed it to fall into bankruptcy] and ask if he was secretly the Zodiac Killer? Or perhaps we’ll telephone Jeffrey Skilling [former chief executive of Enron Corporation who was indicted for fraud] and inquire if he knows the identity of Jack the Ripper.”

“If you think those phone calls will yield results.” He replied with a careless shrug.

“We’re working a _real_ murder case here, Thomas.” Abberline snapped, eye twitching with pent up frustration. “Innocent people have been killed because of this maniac and you want us to launch a pointless investigation on one of the richest men in the world simply because three of our victims invested in a multibillion dollar investment company that he so happens to own?” His voice reached a fever pitch at the end. “Do you realize how absolutely ridiculous that sounds?” 

“Well,” Thomas stood up, “we’ll never know unless we try now, will we?” He gave Abberline one of those smiles—an irritatingly calm half-smirk that was all arrogance and knowledge and something else the older detective couldn’t quite place.

“The inspector’s going to have your head.” Abberline began, a look of warning in his eyes.

Thomas waved a hand. “A preliminary background check is all we’re doing at the moment, Underline.”

“It’s _Abberline—_!”

“And there is no existing legislation that exists stating we can’t look through Funtom’s accounting history now is there?”

“Well, no—“

“And since when hasn’t an investment bank committed a fraud or two that warrants a bit of police action?”

“I admit investment banks do tend to folly but—“

“And in any case,” Thomas collected his coat and phone, smirk still in place, “I’ll be the one calling on Phantomhive so the inspector won’t have to worry about facing the brat’s wrath.” He gave a backwards wave whilst heading out the door. “Be back in a few, Abberline.”

And with a thump that signified Faust’s departure, Frederick Abberline was left standing alone in the conference room, an expression of absolute bewilderment on his face.

_Did he just call Ciel Phantomhive a...brat?_

 

* * *

 

Lunch with Edward Midford was not something Ciel Phantomhive enjoyed. It was an obligation he undertook for the sake of his fiancée and quite honestly, Ciel grimaced, it was something that bordered dangerously close to the ninth circle of hell. 

For the entirety of their meal, Midford’s scowl had remained firmly in place. Even when his wife, the much more tolerable Nora, had gently tapped her husband’s shoulder while Edward had been aggressively cutting into his steak sirloin with more enthusiasm than needed, green eyes fixed on Ciel.

Elizabeth, beautiful and unaware as always, chatted away happily about flower designs and garden parties. Ciel smiled at the memory—she looked an absolute dream dressed in a cream muslin gown, off the shoulder, and hand embroidered with pink lace roses. She’d exclaimed how very wonderful it was that they were all finally together and asked if Edward might renovate his yacht so the four of them could go boating.

Not that Ciel would ever agree to _that._

There were far too many ways for Midford to “accidentally” drown Ciel while no one was looking and, quite frankly, Ciel wouldn’t put it past him to come up with a contingency plan to hide the murder as well. Besides, hadn’t Midford served for three years in her majesty’s navy? He was, by and large, a trained seafarer with a passion for maps, oceanography, and a healthy hatred of Ciel Phantomhive.

Of course, Ciel knew, there were quite a few people who wanted to kill him but none had a better chance than Edward Alexis Leon Midford.

“I will say, it was terribly clever of Nora to serve the roasted pumpkin with marjoram instead of rosemary—and to include a series of appetizers presented in cast-iron!” Elizabeth shook her head, still in awe. “Lovely and strange, wouldn’t you agree?”

“And provincial.” Ciel added absentmindedly as Polaris chauffeured them home. “A bit too bucolic for my tastes.” He brought Lizzy’s palm to his lips. “I much prefer your dinner menus, darling. One of the last elegant beauties left in the world.”

A pretty pink flush appeared on Elizabeth’s creamy skin. “You were so gallant towards Eddie and Nora—even when big brother was glaring at you.” She teased lightly.

Ciel felt a flash of surprise at her comment but shoved it aside. Even Elizabeth, dear and innocent as she was, couldn’t help but notice Edward glowering at him during lunch.

“I do believe he’s never forgiven me for having the audacity to propose to you—and he was even more upset when you actually agreed to marry me.” He chuckled. “I do believe he’s of the mind that the only man worthy of your hand in marriage in King Arthur himself.”

“Oh I don’t know if I would’ve done half so well in a medieval court.” She mused.

They were seven minutes from Phantomhive Manor. “Is that so? I think you would have flourished.”

“Or perhaps I would have become an apprentice of Morgan le Fay and threatened to overthrow him.” She whispered conspiratorially. “Can you imagine the scandal? Two women alone in a castle plotting to overthrow a king.”

“That, I believe, is an HBO series I would be quite interested in watching.”

“We wouldn’t be doing any of _that!_ ” She hid her face in his chest. “We’d be performing very Machiavellian deeds! Such as…gathering armies and making foreign alliances and—“

“Passionate nights under the moonlight with no clothing to obscure your skin?” He suggested, wanting to see if his pretty golden bride could blush just a little bit more. 

She refused to look at him. “No indeed." Elizabeth pouted prettily. "If you were to come to our castle I’d have you thrown in the dungeons.” 

“The dungeons? My, my—what must I do to earn my forgiveness?”

“Bring me the Holy Grail.”

“Is that all? How boring.”

“You don’t want to go on a quest for the Grail?” She peeked up at him.

“I’m not too fond of ancient silverware.”

“In _The Da Vinci Code_ the Grail was a woman.”

“Yes,” he kissed the top of her head, “but she wasn’t _you._ ”

Elizabeth looked rather pleased by his statement and rewarded him with a kiss right as Polaris pulled up to a sandstone driveway, paved and gilded with the Phantomhive crest. Ciel was about to tease his bride for her little show of vanity when Polaris opened the limousine door, face grim and slightly irritated. “My lord,” he murmured, voice low, “Detective Faust is here to see you.”

The earl’s eyes widened. “Faust?” He turned to Elizabeth, who was busy checking her phone, before looking back at Polaris. “Here? Now?”

Polaris nodded.

“That little brat.” He muttered under his breath. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Shall I escort him out, my lord?” His eyes gleamed a little and Ciel, despite his annoyance, refrained from giving the order.

“No. If he’s here, then I shall meet with him, inconvenient as it is—“

“And Miss Midford?” 

“Elizabeth will be accompanying me.”

Polaris stared at him.

Ciel smiled. “What with all the recent murders in Belgravia, I find that I sleep better with Elizabeth by my side.”

“Of course, my lord.”

 

* * *

 

There were many things Thomas Faust expected from his brother but using his fiancée as a human shield was not one of them.

“Hello Astre, please make yourself comfortable. Elizabeth will be back in just a moment so I suggest we keep our conversation short—unless you wish to explain the actual reason as to why you’re here.”

Astre bit his tongue. Apparently he gave his brother more far credit than he was due. 

Coward. 

Decency, Astre knew, had never been one of the tenements a Phantomhive held dear—or held at all to be honest—but Ciel clearly had no desire to even  _acknowledge_ it with a ten foot  pole. 

“Hiding behind your bride-to-be’s skirts?” Astre sneered. “How _gallant_ of you, big brother.”

“Is it so wrong to keep unpleasant things from a woman as beautiful as Elizabeth? She isn’t meant for all this grotesque talk.”

“Perhaps if you stopped smothering her with all your idiocy—“

“Speak up Astre. I know our governess broke that terrible mumbling habit of yours years ago.”

“Shame she didn’t break your habit of stupidity.”

Ciel shot him a patronizing stare. “Now, now, let’s stay civil, Astre. Petty slander is hardly amusing when one knows all your secrets.”

“All my secrets?” He dared.

His brother smiled. “All the ones that matter.” Ciel returned with an expression that was utterly indecipherable.

It was a confrontation of nonverbal vexation on both sides until the double doors swung open and Elizabeth, golden haired and emerald eyed, came bounding in the room. Her very presence brought with it the smell of peaches and daisy flowers and Astre kept his gaze grounded to avoid looking at her for too long.

Elizabeth seemed to be of the opposite mindset.

“Astre!” She cried, arms coming to embrace him in a manner that was all too familiar. Taking a step back, Astre was met with a smile that broke his heart, just the tiniest bit. “What a delightful surprise!”

“Unexpected as well.” Ciel commented from where he sat, cigarette in hand. 

“You didn’t tell us you would coming by—“

“I hadn’t planned on it.” He cut in smoothly, needing to get to the issue at hand before Ciel—

“It _has_ been quite a while since you two saw each other, now hasn’t it?” 

 _And whose fault would that be?_ Astre all but snarled though he refrained, one sapphire eye coming to track his brother’s movements.

“I don’t suppose you two would want to catch up? After all, I just saw Astre a few days ago myself.” A smug little smile was on his older brother's lips. 

_You cowardly, false-faced, cretinous—_

“Oh darling I wouldn't want to impose—“ Elizabeth began nervously.

Ciel waved away her concerns. “Nonsense darling. He’ll be your brother-in-law soon enough.” He stood up right as Polaris materialized from god knows where. “In any case, you’d be doing me a favor entertaining him, darling. I’ve a terribly important phone call to make to Mrs. Queene—“

“Oh how is she?” An expression of worried concern filled Elizabeth’s eyes. “I know it’s been three years since Albert died but I don't believe she’s truly reconciled herself to his passing." 

“Yes, she’s a tad hung up on that but,” Ciel shrugged carelessly. “I’m sure she’ll grow out of it eventually.”

Astre glared. “Grow out of it? Last I heard she started keeping a puppet of her late husband around. A  _puppet._ ”

“I suppose we all deal with grief in different ways.” Elizabeth reasoned.

“Quite right. How else would we get all those charming poems? Wordsworth, Coleridge—English literature would be quite empty without a healthy dose of death.” Ciel smiled.

“Poetry is praiseworthy. Commissioning puppets of your dead husband is not.” Astre deadpanned. 

“She could start a puppet theater. Marionette dolls perhaps? That way her shows could receive praiseworthy reviews.” Elizabeth mused before realizing what she’d said.

Ciel looked flabbergasted that his pretty little fiancée could make a joke so macabre.

Astre was doing his utmost best to try and hide his smile.

Polaris coughed.

“Oh—I…I didn’t mean that _more_ people needed to die for her to have a theater! I mean, she could make puppets of living people as well! It was just—well, I meant that, theoretically speaking, if she wanted to join the great list of English writers then perhaps she could direct theater shows. But obviously no one wouldn’t have to die just for that. Then again, people die all the time but, specifically, they wouldn’t have to die for her to do a show—“ she rambled frantically, cheeks turning redder by the second.

It took a moment for Astre to realize he was still holding her but once he did, he made no move to let go. After all, if Ciel was going to behave like a coward then he may as well be ignored like one too.

“Perhaps some tea, Miss Elizabeth?” Astre inquired politely.

Ciel blinked, finally breaking through his haze of bewilderment to realize that Elizabeth was now the prettiest shade of ruby crimson. “Yes,” he nodded towards Polaris, “tea, of course. The maids will—“

“Ah, big brother,” Astre’s smile turned feral. “I’m sure you’re now running _extremely_ late by now—what with your phone call to Victoria Queene and all. I will be all too glad to stay and entertain Lizzy until she’s well again.”

It was a moment of gleeful vengeance when Ciel all but had a conniption.

“How very…generous of you.” Ciel’s smile looked like 1970s plastic.

“Yes, well, you must be off.” Astre commanded cheerily. 

“I could—“

“As they say, the queen waits for no one.” He sat down across from Elizabeth, whose face had finally returned to its usual creamy rose shade.

Ciel turned, glancing down at his fiancée before his Atlantic-blue eyes met his brother’s. “I’ll return in an hour or so.” He looked like a baptist preacher who was being sent to a hippie commune as he vanished through the library's mahogany doors, Polaris in tow. 

“That was horrid of me, wasn’t it?” Lizzy mumbled under her breath.

Astre turned to her. “What was?”

“That—that wretched, thoughtless comment about Mrs. Queene and puppets and—“

“Oh that?” He snorted. “That was probably the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.”

“I basically just insinuated that the only way for Mrs. Queene to achieve success as a writer was if everyone she knew and loved were to die!”

“And you’re most likely right. People say a lot of things about Victoria Queene but not a single one can claim that her talent lies in balladry or theater production.”

“Still,” she accepted Astre’s proffered teacup, “that was awfully insensitive of me.”

“Insensitive? Elizabeth, if you were any more sensitive you’d be one giant bruise. No one should feel as much as you do.”

She blinked. “I’m…sorry?”

_Dammit, wait no—_

“I didn’t mean that as an insult.”

“Oh.” She looked down.

Astre bit his tongue. “How are things with my brother?” He tried again.

Elizabeth took a sip of the tea—and coughed.

Violently.

“Elizabeth?” Astre was on his feet before she waved him back down, shoulders shaking as she continued coughing. 

“I’m—I’m fine,” she managed between coughing fits. “It’s just..." she coughed, one hand pressing against her throat, “did you...did you put _salt_ in here by any chance?” She gestured to her teacup.

Astre glanced down at the tea tray. There were four little ceramic jars painted with lilies, each with a silver spoon hanging out of it.

The first contained jam.

The second clotted cream.

The third sugar cubes.

The fourth…

“Why the bloody hell would my brother keep a jar of salt on his _afternoon tea set?_ ”

“I think,” Elizabeth coughed again, “it’s for his butter. Ciel prefers salted butter on his crumpets but dislikes butter with salt already put into it. So he uses unsalted butter and adds the salt himself.”

"That is, by far, the most _idiotic_ thing I've ever heard." 

“It is a bit silly, isn't it?” Elizabeth smiled lightly, reaching for a napkin. “To go through all that for salted butter.”

“My brother’s always been a difficult man.” Astre muttered.

He tried to ignore the rising tide of embarrassment that threatened to overwhelm. His first meeting with Elizabeth in nearly three years and he'd fed her three spoonfuls worth of rock salt.

Charming.

“And I apologize. For the—“

“Oh, it’s quite alright!” She reassured brightly. “If anything Ciel should have warned you before he left.”

“He was probably hoping it’d be me who would choke on that.”

“Then he forgot his brother was a gentleman.”

“A gentleman who nearly poisoned his fiancée.”

Elizabeth laughed. “That was rock salt, Astre, not cyanide.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if he slipped some in there.”

“Oh, trust me. If there's anyone Ciel wants to kill, it's not you.”

“Well, who _would_ he want to kill?” He asked as casually as he could manage.

Elizabeth hesitated. “No one. It was just—“ her eyes flickered to Ciel’s desk then back again.

She shook her head. “Nothing. Just my being paranoid is all.” She offered him a warm smile but Astre could sense something was amiss. It was in the way she held herself, as if the weight of the world was being pressed down on her and—

He didn’t like seeing this way. So worn and tired with her emerald eyes blank and pale.

Elizabeth was a creature of spring—of warmth and effervescent laughter. Belonging to wildflower fields, white sunshine, and light.

Not _this,_ he grimaced. Not Phantomhive Manor with its dark mahogany walls and blood-soaked secrets. With its catacombs and half-buried skeletons.

“Elizabeth—“

“Just Lizzy.” She reached out, gently twining their fingers together. “It’s so rare for anyone to call me that anymore.”

“Ciel doesn’t?”

“No. He prefers calling me Elizabeth or darling or dearest. He says we’ve outgrown such childish nicknames.”

“My brother’s always been more mature than even he himself could handle.”

“More mature.” She squeezed his hand. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

“You see it as something else?” Astre moved closer, knees brushing against the tea table as he leaned towards her. 

She looked away, first out the window and then at her salt filled teacup. “It’s…Ciel has been terribly busy these past few months. Past few years, really." She bit her lip. "He’s been unhappy.”

“Unhappy?”

“Yes.” Her breath caught. “And I think he’s become even more unhappy because—because,” she breathed out a shaky sigh, eyes misting over with tears.

“Lizzy—“ it was instinctive, the way his hand came to cup her jaw, fingertips brushing against her soft meringue skin. “Why would you think that?” He asked quietly.

“It’s—it’s because of those murders.” She whispered, the words immediately catching Astre off guard.

“The murders?”

“Yes. The ones before Philip Loudain, Richard Bryton, and Andrew Carlisle.” A hot, trembling tear slipped down her cheek. “It’s because Delilah Adams is dead.”

“Delilah Adams?” Astre wracked his brain.

 _Delilah Adams? That no-name ballet dancer who was butchered alongside Quinten Jones, Lawrence Muller, and—whatever the last one’s name was?_ He blinked.

He wasn’t even aware his brother left his gilded world of Belgravia long enough to acknowledge the peasants down below.

But then Elizabeth squeezed his hand again, looking so close to devastation that Astre was torn between anguish and awe.

Her crystalline tears sparkled in the dying afternoon light, glittering like crushed diamonds as she held onto him. A stray golden curl fell from her elaborate braid, brushing against his wrist.

“Lizzy…”

“Ciel thinks I don’t know but I _do._ He—he had a love affair with her. With Delilah Adams.”

 

* * *

 

Sebastian Michaelis looked rather intrigued by the little wedge of information he’d managed to procure from Funtom’s sealed archives. It'd taken a bit of wrangling of course but nothing quite too challenging. 

Though, he supposed, he ought to thank that charming Indian man with the white hair and kind eyes. If he hadn't vouched for Sebastian's security clearance then the crimson-eyed man was fairly sure he'd be seated on a one-way plane to Siberia by now. 

But even the thought of Russia's bitterly cold winter couldn't shake the amusement at what he now held in his hands. 

 

_My dearest boy,_

 

_Perhaps it would interest you to know that a situation has come up involving yourself and your lady love. I suppose you might find it upsetting but in time I believe it’s a situation that could benefit the both of us. After all, the Phantomhive name is an old and prestigious one is it not? One to be feared! One to be acknowledged._

_Certainly not one to be sneered and looked down upon._

_But then again, extramarital affairs are rather potent in fueling the downfalls of great men._

_If you wish to have confirmation of my knowledge, I would be most pleased if you would join me for tea at the Waldorf Astoria sometime._

 

_Best regards,_

_— Victoria_

 

It seemed, Sebastian chuckled, that the little earl more than knew how to cause a scandal. 

Now the question was, what did his lord and master want him to do with it? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Note: Astre Holdings is a subsidiary of the Funtom Corporation. 
> 
> A/N: I know you may think I'm utterly mad for writing this but somehow, I just can't stop XD 
> 
> Reviews would be a cup of tea (with sugar in it) :)


	3. Fun House Mirrors

“I never took you for a coward Ciel but I suppose even the greatest minds can err every once in a while.” Astre stabbed a questionably large slice of German chocolate cake as he sat in his Scotland Yard office, lights off. “You really are every cliche rolled into one aren’t you big brother?” 

Ciel sighed over the phone and Astre wondered if he was pinching the bridge of his nose the way Uncle Diedrich did whenever father irritated him. “My, my—is this righteous indignation on my fiancée’s behalf or yours? I thought Elizabeth would have been delighted to see you but I suppose you’ve fallen far enough from her memory if you've made her as miserable as she was coming out of that room.”

The derision in his voice was clear though Astre paid more attention to the sound of china clinking against wood. Ciel was no doubt taking his afternoon tea with his goddamn jar of salt. 

The detective took another bite of cake just to spite him. 

“Come, brother dearest," Ciel interrupted, "how on earth did you manage to make my Elizabeth cry? And in such a short span of time as well." 

The younger Phantomhive stayed silent, fully aware that if he spoke now he’d blow the whole operation. 

“She did a wonderful job covering it up. Had I been anyone else I wouldn't have noticed.” 

“She has a kind heart.” He took a bite of cake, chewed, and swallowed. “I mentioned the Belgravia murders.”

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mentioned the Belgravia murders." Astre repeated blandly, leaning back in his oversized 19th century armchair that looked thoroughly out of place in his minimalist office. 

It was then that his brother’s airy voice sharpened, all pretense of whimsy falling to the wayside. “You little _fool,_ " he sneered. "Did I not make it clear that Elizabeth was to be kept from such unseemly talk—“

“Have you become the thought police now?" The detective's sapphire eyes were fixed on the painting sitting across from him. Casper David Friedrich. _Wanderer above the Sea of Fog._ "We’re far from 1984, Ciel.” 

“She’s _delicate,_ Astre.” His brother stressed, as if Elizabeth were a glass doll and not a human woman. “She isn’t meant for all this ugliness. She likes pretty things and pink satin and garden parties. Not—“ he took a sharp inhale, “not _murder._ ”

“Well I don’t know if anyone _likes_ murder.” He suppressed an eye roll. “Unless they’re psychopaths with a penchant for bloodied human flesh.”

“ _You_ like murders, Astre.” 

“I _work_ with murders.” He corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“Semantics.” Ciel interrupted blithely, as if such technicalities were beyond the care of a Phantomhive. “In any case you’ve made Elizabeth a mess—“

“A mess?” He felt a pang of guilt that was overwhelmed by irrational anger. Elizabeth’s cheeks had looked so hollow during their meeting, her creamy pale skin stretched over her décolletage with almost painful force, making the ivory collarbones so prominent Ciel could have balanced a tea spoon on them.  

“She’s been quite inconsolable since your meeting and I don’t know how to rectify her.” 

“Rectify her?” Briefly, Astre closed his eyes, grateful for the frosted glass windows of his office. “She’s your _fiancée_ not a collected antique, Ciel." He strived for a voice that was controlled. Calm. _Measured._ "You can’t simply expect her—“

“Are you now going to lecture me on the duties of a husband to his wife?”

“As I recall you’ve not yet married.” He intoned coolly. 

“And you’ve far outstepped your bounds, Astre.” The earl’s voice was ice. “Don’t think I’ve been unaware of why you’ve suddenly decided to visit our old family home. You suspect _I_ have something to do with the murders of those three idiots don’t you?”

“Branding them idiots certainly doesn't help your cause.” 

Even over the phone and miles away Ciel could detect something else in his brother’s voice—something bleak and fiery, full of auspice and ciphers. It reminded him of those strange, cryptic half-smiles his younger sibling would exchange with Tanaka or mother. Smiles he could never quite comprehend.

It irritated the Byzantine earl more than he cared to admit, wheedling into his consciousness like a prick of ice against an open wound.

“If you have an accusation you wish to make then for the love of god, just _say it._ ” He went for the offensive. “Let us parlay reasonably, little brother. Surely father taught you _that_ much at the very least.” The hint of mockery in Ciel’s voice was clear but Astre was all too happy to acquiesce.

Ciel had a terribly short fuse when provoked.

“Richard Bryton, Philip Loudain, Andrew Carlisle.” He listed, polishing off the last of his cake “They all invested in Astre Holdings.” 

“So they did.”

“That MBA really was bought on your behalf, wasn’t it?” There was a hint of mirth in the young detective's voice. “All three men saw a downturn in their stock portfolio after taking your advice. For an investment bank, you really are a large disappointment.”

“It’s hardly my fault they didn’t sell when the market was up.”

“No,” he opened his filing cabinet, making sure Ciel heard the metallic clang, “but most intelligent investment firms wouldn’t choose to put billions on Trancy Consolidated after their chief executive was hauled from office for heroin addiction.”

“That was the board’s decision, not mine.” Ciel's voice, while laced with cyanide, was strained. Had Astre not known better he would've thought his brother had been forced to his knees at gunpoint. 

Astre smiled. “You used to be a better liar, big brother.” He tossed a few files to the ground in order to pry open the false bottom. “You’ve fallen from Augustus to Commodus. Any reason as to why?” 

There was the faint sound of exhale on the other line (no doubt part of Ciel's continuous march towards lung cancer with those Marlboro cigarettes or whatever it was he smoked these days). “Are you honestly attempting to induce some sort of desultory answer from me that might incriminate Funtom in the deaths of these three churlish swines?” He demanded at last. 

“Their sudden losses after investing in Astre Holdings followed by their rather convenient deaths does make you look a shade peculiar, Earl Phantomhive.” 

“Have you ever considered coincidence?”

“Have you ever read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?”

Ciel let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Don’t make this into some television drama, Astre. In life no plot is so convoluted that we require a Sherlock Holmes to untangle.” Astre heard the gentle clink of crystal against wood. His brother was most likely drinking by now—scotch. Or perhaps aged bourbon. “Let me give you a bit of advice little brother—“

“Fine. Come tomorrow you can also give me verbal recitation of Luther’s 99 theses if so wish.”

“Are you planning on recreating the Spanish Inquisition?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then I’ve recently come down with a terrible bout of tuberculosis.”

Astre sneered as he finally pried open the false bottom, fingers coming to curl around two heavy stacks of paper. “Take a few antibiotics. After all, you remember the Inquisition. I don’t need you alive at the end.”

Ciel gave a half-hearted imitation of a cough. “Dying, little brother. I’m absolutely dying.”

“Pity.” He sorted through a few tax returns and P60s. “I’ll have a wheelchair brought to you.”

“I’ll infect you with my illness.”

“Yes, well I never expected to live to the age of 30 so it's a moot point." 

“I’ll infect your office.”

“Never particularly cared for any of these cretins either." 

“If I drive there, I’ll fall asleep at the wheel and perish without a trace.”

“So long as you leave a written confession before you die, then I’m sure Scotland Yard can make do.”

“You’d be convicting an innocent man.” Ciel tried. “Don’t fear for your immortal soul?”

“I’m sure god is willing to negotiate.”

“God is a busy man.”

“Yes, well, so am I.” Astre shifted his phone from one hand to the other. “I’ll have Abberline escort you to my office.”

“I’m not stepping foot in a police precinct.”

Astre rolled his eyes. “Fine. My flat—“

“Is it clean?”

“Who do you take me for? Trancy?”

“I don’t know, you did keep a terribly close eye on him towards the end of his tenure at Trancy Consolidated.”

“I was tracking his dealer.”

“No need to fret. These days modernity allows for a great variety in sexual appetites.”

Astre’s eye twitched. “You’re pushing it, brother of mine.”

“I’m sure you’re used to it.” Ciel returned pleasantly. 

Astre was tempted to reach through the phone and shove his brother’s half-smoked cigarette down his cancer ridden throat. He was sure that wouldn’t kill him. Just injure him. And maybe force surgeons to cut out his vocal chords.

“Ta, brother.” He could hear the smirk in Ciel’s voice. “Tomorrow then? Say around 2?”

“If someone hasn’t cut the breaks in your car.”

“I’ll have Polaris do a preliminary inspection beforehand.”

 

* * *

 

“Michaelis.”

“Mmh?”

“My brother’s dying of tuberculosis.”

“Shall I send flowers or a mariachi band?”

“Neither. We’ll be tasteful this time around and send a car.” Astre dropped a manilla folder in front of the raven-haired man. “Run these numbers and see if they add up.”

Sebastian Michaelis, a man of heinous beauty and devilish charm, raised one gloved hand to open the folder, glanceed at the accounting data, and then looked up, an amused little half-smile screwed firmly in place. “This is a as of yet unreleased spreadsheet from Astre Holdings. You couldn’t have obtained this without corporate espionage.”

“I’m well connected.”

“You also have every account transaction Astre Holdings has made since 2014.”

“I’m _very_ well connected.”

Sebastian quirked a brow. “Bribery, blackmail, or technological surveillance?”

“Neither. I just asked nicely.”

Crimson eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Did you?”

“So little faith in me, Michaelis?” He smirked.

“It’s been three months since I last had blood stains on my carpet. I’d like to maintain that record.”

“Oh calm yourself,” Astre crossed his arms. “There’ll be no assassins after me because of this. Trust me, when I say all I did was ask nicely—that was truly _all,_ " he emphasized, “I did.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Considering I’m the one footing your bills…”

“Then let’s make a deal,” the part-time assassin's smile turned predatory. “I’ll accommodate your dubiously obtained data and in exchange, you provide the introductory statement between myself and Agni.”

“Who?”

“Agni. The cousin to that brat you continue to associate yourself with.”

“You mean Arshad?”

Sebastian blinked. “Who?” 

“Arshad.” Astre spoke slowly as if talking to a mentally disturbed five year old. “Soma’s cousin. The surgeon?”

“Yes. Agni.”

“No.” Astre arched a brow. “Arshad.”

“Agni.”

“His name is Arshad. Dr. Arshad Satyendra Iyer, MD. You want to see his birth certificate?”

“He introduced himself as Agni.”

“Well then he obviously must not have liked you very much.” The sapphire detective affirmed right as Abberline walked through the door. “But I suppose you’re on your own in regards to that—“

“Then _I_ suppose these accounts will never be properly certified.” Sebastian leaned back in his chair. 

“You,” the younger man pointed, “work for _me._ ” 

“Temporarily.” He smiled.

Astre's left eye twitched. _Foul villain, fiend intolerable!_

At last, the detective gave a nod that looked more like condemnation. “If you’re as desperate as that, _fine._ " He sneered. "But I won’t hold back when he leaves you for someone who _doesn’t_ have to blackmail his cousin’s acquaintance to obtain his phone number.” 

 

* * *

 

Commissioner William T. Spears was not a jubilant man by nature. Indeed, some could say he was the exact opposite of felicitous—he was stern, efficient, brusque, and proper, coming to work everyday with a suit that was ironed and pressed within an inch of its life, his hair perfectly combed, and glasses right in place. He was the sort of man Frances Midford would enjoy a cup of tea with at the Four Seasons on Park Lane. The sort of man who would know _exactly_ what sort of discourse was going on in the Middle East while also being completely up to date on the scores and wins of Manchester United’s Levi Ackerman.

Furthermore, Commissioner William T. Spears was the type of man who was acquaintances (never friends) with other revered honorables; he was the gentleman who could smell the vodka on a person from fifteen feet away—the kind of intellectual who could come to work, fountain pen in hand, ready to assign squad divisions like some titan task maker.

He was also, in the most technical sense, the closest thing Detective Thomas Faust would ever have to an employer.

“Your 9 AM report was missing from my desk this morning, Faust.” Commissioner Spears, voice blank and bereft as the hollow crown, spoke mechanically as he sat behind a desk of magnificent walnut, hand-carved of course, with each of the four legs done up to resemble the English lion. Behind him rested a wall of books, filled completely with first edition volumes that had been read and reread. 

It was the one redeeming quality Thomas could begrudgingly give his stone-faced superior. 

“Faust.”

“The investigation is still incomplete.” He disclosed, now bored and impatient. “I’ve a few more rounds of inquisition to make.” 

“You’ve opened up lines of communication with Earl Phantomhive.” The commissioner's eyes, sharp green, cut right through Astre. “I didn’t authorize that.”

“No, it was a judgement call on my part.” He returned with a breezy half-smile. “All will be revealed in due time.” 

“I have little faith in that happening.” 

“You wound me dear sir!” Thomas sighed dramatically. “Alas, I shall endeavor to amend that assumption. Until then,” he prepared to turn and depart.

“Faust.”

With an inward groan that was a cry between a widow's lament and a sinner being dragged to hell, the young detective managed to replace his mortification with a neutral enough expression before pivoting around. “Commissioner?”

The old stick in the mud didn't even look up. “Take Michaelis with you.” 

“He’s on another assignment—“

“You think I’m unaware of that?” His lips thinned.

Astre wondered if ritual suicide was still possible. “I’d rather not have Sebastian Michaelis as my accomplice when I go to speak with the earl.”

“Then it’s a very good thing your opinion carries very little weight on these matters.” Astre watched as Spears filed two sheets of paper and uncapped his fountain pen. “Dismissed.”

Astre suppressed the urge to fling open the doors and completely regard his... _superior's_ orders. Good sense (as well as a silent fear of paperwork) won out in the end. “Of course.” He conceded with as much polite courtesy as he could muster. 

 _Dismissed,_  Astre seethed, _who does he think he is? Some two-bit political parvenu who was only elected into office on the goodwill of_ ** _my_** _father and—_

Good god. Astre grimaced once he realized where his thoughts were headed. That sort of pretentious know-how was an embarrassment reserved solely for Ciel. 

He exhaled. It simply wouldn't do to be put on the same level as someone who's name could be confused with a marine mammal. 

 

* * *

 

Astre rounded the bullpen again, weaving his way through the last remaining office workers as the skyline turned a vivid dark violet blue. 

It wasn’t particularly hard to find Sebastian’s desk considering it was the only one that was half-way organized. While most had deli coffee cups, haphazardly arranged files, piles of unfinished paperwork, and photos of snot-nosed children and unhappy homemakers, Sebastian’s cherrywood desk was as empty and impersonal as one could get. 

Save for the black bobblehead cat that sat next to his computer. 

“Michaelis.”

“Numbers aren’t done yet.” He greeted. 

The sapphire detective crossed his arms. “Finish that Thursday. We’ve a brother to pick up tomorrow.”

The former chief financial officer of Virgil Media barely even glanced up. “Do it yourself.” He made a few marks on the spreadsheet in front of him. “Say what you will about your brother but at least his accounting statements are more interesting than others.”

Astre’s expression was one of irritated disbelief and annoyed exasperation. “Has he embezzled from the Crown?”

“Well, not yet.”

“Then he’s not that interesting.”

Sebastian’s eyes flickered to meet Astre’s. “Do I detect a hint of repressed childhood animosity in that statement of yours?”

“No but you’ll get an earful of Knox’s nail gun if you don’t get off your fat arse right now.”

“I’m in perfectly good shape.”

“Drunk college girls will say anything to the idiot footing their liquor tab.”

“Since when do you need to be chauffeured like some incapacitated Victorian noble?”

“Since Commissioner Spears made you my new partner on this case.”

“What happened to Goatee Boy?”

“Abberline’s handling an arson case for the duke of Beaufort. You’re all that’s left, Michaelis.”

“How flattering.” The dark haired man returned dryly.

The sapphire eyed detective leaned against Baldroy Cooper's desk, arms crossed. “You didn’t happen to find anything in relation to Victoria Queene in there, did you?”

“Victoria Queene?" The ex-con arched a brow. "The madwoman of NASDAQ?”

“The very one.”

He glanced back at the marked balance sheets. “Nothing yet. Funtom has no deals, outstanding or otherwise, with Albert Alexandrina.” He frowned in clear distaste. “Horrid name for a company that once performed so well.”

Incredulous disbelief appeared on Astre's face. “No connection to Queene’s company at all? No purchases of stock, no business dealings however minor?”

“Not a one.”

Astre's eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t lie to me would you?” 

Sebastian chuckled. “You make this sound as if it were life and death.”

Memories of Ciel’s overdramatic temper tantrums at the ages of eight, nine, and ten came to mind and Astre barely managed to suppress a shudder. _I don’t wanna study without Astre! He’s gotta sit beside me, mama! Get him to sit here_ ** _right now!_** “Never mind.” The detective glanced at the clock. It was twenty before eight and he hadn’t eaten yet. “I’m heading home.”

“Wait.” Sebastian held out his hand. “Agni’s number.”

“For the last time his name’s _Arshad._ ”

The forensic accountant’s smile sharpened. (How Sebastian got Commissioner Spears to give him such a ridiculous title, Astre would never know.)

Instead, the younger man muttered a few choice words that sounded rather like insults but Sebastian paid him no heed. Astre Phantomhive (or Detective Faust—his title really did depend on his mood) was a bitter little boy who would grow to become a bitter old man while Sebastian was off exploring the exotic goods of an alluring India.

Seemed like a fair enough trade to him.

“Here.” The sapphire detective threw a leaflet of paper at him. “Keep in mind, if you hurt him Soma has sixteen fully grown elephants that can trample you and your fun bits until they both resemble flat tires.”

“He can rest easy.” Sebastian snatched the note up. “I am a patron of all things pleasurable and amusing.”

Astre grimaced. “Don’t say that shit out loud. It’s mortifying for everyone involved.”

“And this,” Sebastian smirked, “is why you can’t land a date.”

“Says the man who all but blackmailed me into giving him someone else’s number.”

The quasi-international criminal (Sebastian preferred the term _extralegal_ ) waved away his words as he plugged Agni’s number into his phone. “Semantics.”

“When you get a restraining order thrown your way, don’t come crying to me.”

“I don’t cry.”

“You cried watching _Homeward Bound._ ”

“I expressed my anguish and grief in a healthy manner.”

A look of disbelief crossed Astre’s face. _This piece of—_ “You can’t be serious. You can’t honestly be sitting across from me preaching about _healthy manners of expression_ when you nearly eloped with a sociopath two years ago.”

“Blavat wasn’t a sociopath—“

“He had purple hair.”

“And you have blue hair.”

“This,” Astre emphasized, “is _cobalt._ ”

“You look like an angry twelve year old either way.”

“And you’re a decrepit old man who’s losing his looks.” There was a smug air of self-satisfaction in Astre’s voice, as if he knew he’d won the argument.

Sebastian’s close-to-murderous glare spoke for itself really.

“Well, I’ll be off then.” Astre turned with a jaunty wave of the hand. “If you die while working then remember to send a memo to Commissioner Spears so I don’t get an earful about not taking you along with me.”

“I despise you, you little brat.”

“Words of adoration won’t work on me, Michaelis.” He weaved his way through the bullpen. “And neither do work drones without their own offices.” 

“Yes, but at least the woman I love isn’t in a relationship with my twin brother.” He smirked. 

Astre wondered if he’d be knighted by her majesty for strangling Sebastian Michaelis—wanted criminal, fraud perpetuator, and disbarred former attorney—on the spot.

After all, he could always get Tanaka to be his bodyguard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- "...thought police...We're far from 1984" - references George Orwell's novel '1984' where citizens are victims of perpetual war, an omnipresent government (heralded by the thought police who arrest anyone speaking out, against, or contrary to the government), and public manipulation by the superstate Oceania. 
> 
> \- "You've fallen from Augustus to Commodus" - refers to Emperor Augustus who founded a dynasty that lasted nearly fifteen hundred years. He created Rome's standing army, instituted revenue reforms, maintained the roads around Italy, and was famed as shrewd, intelligent, decisive, and charismatic. Commodus, then, refers to the now infamous Lucius Aurelius Commodus (of 'Gladiator' fame) whose disinterest in state administration led to him appointing a series of favorites (including his own chamberlain) to positions of high power, alienating himself from his advisors and the people who considered him a disgraceful, brutish megalomaniac. 
> 
> A/N: Buddy-cop duo Sebastian and (our)Ciel = my aesthetic lol I honestly cannot wait to unveil Sebastian’s criminal record and how he came into our!Ciel’s employment XD 
> 
> For anyone confused, Sebastian was the former CFO of Virgil Media and is now currently serving as our!Ciel’s sort-of bodyguard, sort-of personal assassin, and sort-of forensic accountant (a real profession! Forensic just means that whatever disputes he finds within financial transactions can be used in a court of law). At this point in time Seb is currently 38 years old, our!Ciel and real!Ciel are 25, Lizzy is 26, Edward and Abberline are 30, and Agni is 36. 
> 
> Oh and for anyone curious, here are the four everyday people killed before Richard Bryton, Philip Loudain, and Andrew Carlisle:
> 
> \- Quinten Jones (25 year old bookkeeper)
> 
> \- Delilah Adams (20 year old ballerina who just signed with the New York Ballet Company)
> 
> \- Edwin John Jasper (former employee of the Funtom Corporation)
> 
> \- Lawrence Muller 
> 
> My super unhealthy obsession with studying white collar crime finally has an outlet! LOL 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts below!


	4. High-Wire Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE: A bear market is a condition in which securities prices fall, causing widespread pessimism which then sustains the stock market's downward spiral. Investors anticipate losses as pessimism and selling increases. A typical bear market includes a downturn of 20 percent or more from market indexes like the Dow Jones or Standard & Poor's 500 Index (S&P 500). 
> 
> \- Also Jupyter Notebook is a web application that contains live code and equations. It's often used for data cleaning and transformation, numerical simulation, statistical modeling, and data visualization. (I use this a lot in my psychology classes when I do data simulations. Super easy to use with a clear cut code.) 
> 
> (I promise all this jargon is gonna go away once we begin exposing Ciel's secrets. Then it'll just be a whole lot of manipulation, desperation, sorrow, and intrigue. Fun stuff ahead XD)

“Riddle me this, Phantomhive. Why in the name of all that is unholy would Funtom Incorporated buy 3.4 million dollars worth of stock from Siemens Industrial during a bear market?”

“Because the market's falling just like my brother's very limited I.Q.” Astre replied, coffee cup in hand. The two were working out of the detective's Knightsbridge penthouse that'd been purchased, of course, with the Phantomhive trust. “What do you have?” He inquired, grimace already in place. 

Sebastian moved forward slightly, allowing Astre a better view of the ridiculous oversized flatscreen computer. “Here,” he gestured, “the 2007, 2008, and 2009 years saw the S&P drop by 50%. The Dow Jones fell by 20% and somehow the chief executive of a Fortune 500 company wants to purchase 3.4 million dollars worth of fighter pilot stock? Is he planning to lay a one-man siege on the Middle East?”

Astre stared at the screen, mind screeching to a literal halt as he stared at the glaring red charts and huge losses of income. “This is the account balance I gave you yesterday?”

“It is—hideous to look at wouldn’t you say?” Sebastian’s voice was unusually grave. “And not only that,” he tapped a few keys, “I plugged this into Jupyter and look.” He hit enter and three massive line charts appeared.

“This…is impossible.” Astre stared down the numbers.

_Thousands. Millions. Billions._

_Gone._

“Ciel is a lot of things but how do you—?”

“How do you lose $1.8 billion in a matter of months?” Sebastian zoomed in on one of the graphs. “For someone who pretends to be so tightly risk monitored, your brother’s a gambler. He’s making wild bets on the market and hoping to turn a profit.”

“No.” Astre shook his head. “My brother is many things but a gambler is not one of them. Unless he planned this six months in advance. If not, this has to be the work of an outside influence. I’ve known Ciel since we shared a cradle, and you can honestly—or dishonestly—call him many things but brash is not one of them. He’s a calculating, conniving opportunist. Not a gambler.”

“You sound as if you’re describing yourself.” Sebastian drank from his coffee, eyes still skimming the rapid plunges in profit. “Do you suppose he left the day to day running to someone else?”

“No.” Astre’s eyes were fixed on the screen. “He’s controlling. He would never allow his board or chief financial officer to make a move without his express permission.” _In any case,_ the detective grimaced, _Tanaka should’ve been the one to_ ** _reign in_** _my brother. Not turn him loose like this._ “He’s turned Funtom into a veritable casino.” Astre glanced at the various reports Tanaka had smuggled out to him. “And he’s letting investors gamble with Funtom’s stock.”

 

* * *

 

Astre took a seat across a mahogany lacquered coffee table with some apprehension. He hadn’t expected Lizzy to phone him—let alone _meet_ with him. And while he agreed with relative coolness, Astre thought it fitting he at least choose a setting she would feel comfortable in.

So he consulted Abberline first.

And he was indifferent about it. Utterly indifferent and most certainly _not_ desperate.

 

(“Tea houses?” The man’s navy blue eyes widened. “Er—I don’t know if you can tell but I’m not the type to frequent tea houses. At all.”

“You’re English.” Astre couldn’t believe it. It was _Abberline._ Friendly, naive Abberline. Surely the man had taken his sister to a tea house? He seemed like the nice sort of bloke who’d do that.

Abberline shrugged. “So are you.”

“Yes. I’m _me._ ”

“…Good point.” He stopped typing for a moment to look at his partner of three years. “Well, I don’t know. Did you try Google?”

Astre scoffed, already turning to walk away. “I thought you might be good for something other than paperwork but evidently, I was wrong.”

“Say that a little louder Faust and we can declare that miracles do exist.” Abberline called after him, laughter in his voice.)

 

His colleague, however, proved useless as usual.

So Astre turned to Knox. Despite the ginger-haired man’s avarice, self-indulgence, and penchant for reckless behavior, Ronald Knox _did_ frequent quite a few social establishments and was known as something of a playboy.

Surely _he_ knew a decent tea house.

 

(“A tea house?” Knox looked absolutely dumbstruck. “What the hell is a _tea house?_ ”

Astre blinked. Was he joking or just plain stupid?“A tea house. A…place for afternoon tea.” He could feel his irritation mounting and knew it wouldn’t be long before he resorted to those inane (albeit effective) breathing exercises his psychiatrist prescribed him.

“Right.” Knox leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. “Unless ‘tea house’ is now a euphemism for 'sex club’ then I really can’t help you.”

“You’re pathetic.”

“Says the kid asking me about _tea houses._ What the hell—you got a girl you’re trying to impress or something?”

“…No.”

Knox’s stupid eyes widened. “Holy shit, you _do!_ My god, I never thought I’d see the day! Fuck, we all thought you were asexual—“

Astre slowly began to count down from 200. By intervals of three. “Then I suppose we were both wrong about the other. For example, I had thought it true that your idiocy could earn you dates with the opposite sex but now I see _that_ was nothing more than a pleasant, wishful rumor. In fact, I blame myself for such indulgent thinking. After all, what woman would ever want to spend even an hour with a creature as crude, abrasive, and moronic as yourself.”

“Jeez, you’ve got it _bad._ ” Knox laughed, completely ignoring Astre’s mockery. “C’mon, we’ve know each other for a while, Faust. If you tell me now then I can score you free entrance into _The Vermillion Court._ ” 

The sapphire detective said nothing.

“It just opened." Knox clarified. "One of the hottest clubs in London.”

“...I see." He couldn't believe he thought  _Ronald Knox_ might've been any help. "Well. I'll be going now."  _Idiot._

“Later, Faust. Hey—Alan, you hear? Faust has a heart after all! Kid’s trying to impress a girl!”)

 

Though in retrospect, Astre mused, he never should realized that for all of Knox’s loud boasts the only women who would ever be interested in him would be those he needed to pay by the hour.

Which thus resulted in Astre’s rather bizarre encounter with the pretty lesbian forensics expert, Sieglinde Sullivan.

 

(“First of all if you’re trying to get with this girl then I’d suggest a bar. But,” she took a long sip of Arnold Palmer, “I’ll bet whoever you’re after’s a real lady huh? You seem like the type to choose someone who’d prefer Caravaggio to Kanye West.”

“That makes absolutely no sense. Caravaggio was a Baroque painter and Kanye West is—well he’s many things but he’s certainly not a 16th century Italian painter.”

Sieglinde doused her fries in ketchup. “You’re missing my point, kiddo.”

Astre’s eye twitched. “I’m two years older than you.”

“And yet I’m the one giving you love advice.” She speared a forkful of fries into her mouth. “Funny how that works, eh?”

“Do you have an answer or are you going to be as useless as Abberline and Knox?”

“ _Ich glaub mich knutscht ein Elch_ —you went to _them_ for advice? Before _me?_ ” She sounded mildly insulted. “Oy vey, I don’t know whether to pity you or laugh.”

The detective glared and the force of it was enough to shatter multiple covalent bonds.

Sieglinde was utterly unfazed. “Alright, look,” she scooted closer even though the cafeteria was still half-empty, “I’m going to be radical here and suggest that you take her to a coffee shop. You know, keep things casual. After all, you don’t want to freak her out do you?”

“I’ve known her since I was _two,_ Sullivan.”

“And yet she’s not dating you. Wonder of wonders, huh?” There was a distinct stab of sarcasm in her response but Astre allowed her a mental pass on that one. “My ex-girlfriend owns a luxury coffee shop just down the street from Tiffany’s on Bond Street. I’ll ring her up, you’ll get a table, and hopefully this lady can make you less irritating to work with. Speaking of which, you ever gonna tell me her name?”

“No.”

Sieglinde frowned. “Why not? I mean, if you’re worried about competition then I solemnly swear I won’t chase after her.” She paused, reconsidering her statement. “But, I mean, that depends on if I ever meet her.”

“Good _bye_ Sullivan.” Astre got up.

Sieglinde gave him an odd look—one that made him feel distinctly on edge. “You really like her, don’t you?”

“I’ve said nothing of the sort.” (And honestly, he never hated the paleness of his skin more than he did in that moment. It made blushes impossible to hide and Astre was not in the mood for whatever sentimental bullshit Sieglinde was about to spew.) “I appreciate your aid, Sullivan—“

“Hey Faust.”

For a split second Astre was about to scold her for daring to interrupt him but the pensive hesitance in her voice caused him to swallow his words. “What is it?” He demanded brusquely but not at all cruelly.

“I don’t know who this girl is but—be careful, alright? Sounds like she’s capable of breaking your heart.”)

 

_Sounds like she’s capable of breaking your heart._

Astre didn’t know whether or not he hated himself—or Ciel—for the bitter truth.

 _Already broken,_ he wanted to say.

And whose fault was it but his own? Whatever he felt for Elizabeth— _Lizzy_ —was nothing more than foolish folly. A lingering fancy.

An impossible impracticality.

After all, was there anything worse than falling in love with your twin brother’s fiancée? Propriety dictated that he stay away—let the earl and his future countess live in matrimonial bliss with him at the far edges of their world.

It was a resolution that Astre vowed to stick by no matter how hateful it all seemed.

But now, after seeing Lizzy again after _three years,_ he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing her own tear-stained face. The way her soft rose mouth stuttered, lips caught by silent cries.

_He had a love affair with her. With Delilah Adams._

It was impossible, Astre knew. It was _irrational._ Why the bloody _hell_ would his brother risk not only his marriage but Lizzy’s own happiness for a few nights with a chorus girl? For all of Ciel’s faults, Astre could at least admit that his brother was rational—perhaps rational to a fault. He was cold, clinical, and a self-absorbed son of a bitch but Astre really couldn’t blame him for that. It was a Phantomhive trademark after all.

Yet even still, Ciel would not be one to succumb to lustful passions so easily. Astre knew all about his brother’s ideas and ideals of perfection—of possessing the silk and ermine of the aristocracy, of flaunting the blueness of his noble blood.

Delilah Adams, from what Astre knew, was so dismissively plain and unoriginal that it was almost painful to consider.

Ciel wouldn’t destroy everything he’d ever built for a mere _girl._ Not even for Elizabeth.

There had to be something else—some other reason for Ciel’s irrationality.

After all, wasn’t that the whole reason for Astre’s noble endeavor? His one futile (and, if the illogicality of his brother’s affair proved true, his _failed_ ) attempt at honor. The poets made it sound like such a magnificent sacrifice but Astre knew that above all else, it was _sacrifice._

He hadn’t realized how much space Lizzy occupied in his heart until he left her and suddenly, roses no longer looked the way he once saw them. Dreams turned to pale imitations of reality and the stars for which he’d been named after grew dull and directionless.

But he was a _Phantomhive_ and Phantomhives did not make the mistake of needless sacrifice. They would never subject themselves to an anguish they could avoid unless it was to bring them greater power.

And _this,_ Astre sneered, this silent torment was the epitome of useless atonement.

There must be a reason—there simply _must_ —for his brother’s betrayal of Elizabeth, for his affair with Delilah Adams, for the sheer lunacy of it all.

 

* * *

 

When Elizabeth swept into the coffee shop (it’s name was irreverent) in her pink peacoat and flushed cheeks, Astre swore that he’d done nothing but stand up, greet her, and sit back down.

There was no wonder in his clear sapphire eyes, no hint of of a smile—it was a meeting between two childhood friends. Nothing more, nothing less.

“I’m so sorry for being this late!” Lizzy quickly put down her purse and took off her coat. She was dressed in a beautiful white sweater dress that clung to her curves, a golden necklace with a small sparrow bird charm, black tights, and velvet high heels that clicked to the beat of Astre’s heart as she rushed to press a kiss to his cheek. “There were so many shoppers all about—pre-holiday gift gathering I think—that it was a triumph just to get through the door!” She laughed and the very sound caused a small, unintentional smile to appear on his own lips. “Did you order?”

“I wasn’t aware of what constituted coffee here.” The scowl that he valiantly attempted to hide appeared in full force as he glared down at the menu. “What the hell is a _Caramel Kiss Fairy Delight?_ Is that even edible?”

“I think,” Lizzy leaned across the table, one hand adjusting the menu so she could see, “that’s just a regular latte with a shot of caramel syrup and whipped cream.” She looked up at him, expression dead serious. “I am the coffee queen.” She pronounced loftily.

The smile on Astre’s lips threatened to grow wider. “That’s a fine pronouncement but even queens can be wrong. This drink could very well be poisoned.” 

“Ohh, very true. You know, the barista did look a bit like Lucrezia Borgia.”

“Then this could very well be cantarella,” Astre continued with the utmost authority. “The Borgias made an art of the slow death.”

“You don’t suppose we ought to call the city health inspector?”

“Impossible. He could very well be in on the conspiracy.”

“Then we’re at an impasse!” Lizzy exhaled dramatically as she sat back down. “Alas, they may very well get away with their heinous crimes.”

“Then we’ll have to resort to Babylonian law. The Code of Hammurabi. An eye for an eye.”

“Don’t you think carving out their eye is a bit unsanitary?” She glanced at the register. “I think we should just abscond with all their coffee beans.”

“I was suggesting something along the lines of a retaliatory poisoning.”

“Mmh,” Lizzy considered it. “I want fireworks.”

“Fireworks?” The smile that had appeared on Astre’s lips refused to disappear and he could feel genuine amusement threatening to turn to laughter. “We could take a cue from that film—what was it called?”

“V for Vendetta.”

“I’ll add fireworks to the pipe bomb.”

“Terrorist!”

“I prefer the term ‘Roman justice.’”

“I don’t think Caesar ever blew up any coffee shops.”

“I should say not. If he had he might’ve still been emperor.”

Lizzy looked at him.

Astre stared back.

And like the first breezes of summer, the two dissolved into a fit of laughter—Astre as light as the boy he’d once been and Elizabeth as effervescent as the July sun.

“What on _earth_ was that,” Lizzy managed in between fits of laughter. “We sound like escaped lunatics.”

“Who tunneled out of our padded cells—“

“—with a plastic spork.”

“Because we weren’t sane enough to choose a regular eating utensil.” Astre rolled his eyes.

“So we decided on a _spork._ ” Lizzy repeated, trying to stymie her laughter. “A _spork._ We just performed _The Shawshank Redemption_ with a spork. I sound like I’m trying to say ‘pork’ with a lisp.”

“So much for Belgravian elegance.” He scoffed.

“Take that back or you’ll find divine retribution looks a lot like a spork in the eye.”

“Have you considered joining the Scotland Yard interrogation team?”

“I don’t think I’d fare very well there,” Lizzy mused. “And you may consider this blasphemy but it has to be said,” she sighed with exaggerated reluctance, “I don’t particularly enjoy police station coffee.”

“Just for that I must insist you order the _Caramel Kill Fairy Delight._ ”

Lizzy looked at him and the burst into another fit of giggles. “It’s—it’s _Caramel_ ** _Kiss_** _Fairy Delight._ ”

Astre blinked. “What did I say?”

“Caramel Kill Fairy Delight.”

“Well I can’t blame the caramel. Fairies—nasty little buggers.”

“You should open your own coffee shop.” Lizzy smiled, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. “How dreamy it would be—high airy windows, polished granite floors, a full display of pastries and coffee names like _Murderous Mocha_ and _Peppermint Cadaver._ ”

“Just for that I’ll make you my business partner once this case is over.”

At those words the playful lightness in Lizzy’s eyes dimmed and the painful thinness of her face was brought to light. “Of course,” she murmured. “The case.”

“Lizzy,” there was a strange urge to take her hand, to press her palm against his and intertwine their fingers together.

But such an act would neither resolve the situation nor help it.

“I suppose I ought to get on with it.” She added with a self-deprecating smile. “Thank you for putting up with all this nonsense.”

_Nonsense—?_

Astre could hardly believe what he was hearing. This was the first time in _three years_ he’d felt such uninhibited joy—such relaxed ease and unguarded amusement. And while his mind chided the frivolity of this situation—the utter _pointlessness_ of it—the strange pounding of his heartbeat, erratic and slightly uncomfortable in the warmest possible way, made him want to listen to her talk until the moon rose and the earth completed another cycle around the sun.

In his throat were a thousand fractured sentences—words of bland comfort and angry denial—but he found himself taking her hand in his, feeling the softness of her skin and the callouses on her palm as he clasped her smaller hand in his own.

He dared not look up, sapphire eyes fixed on the way their fingers twined together in, how his thumb had come to unconsciously brush against her knuckles with a feather-light touch.

And for a moment, nothing else needed to be said.

Outside the cobblestone sidewalk and asphalt streets rattled with a cacophony of muffled sound—footsteps and bicycles, women commenting on jewelry, the swish of doors as Dolce & Gabbana closed right as Cartier opened. Chanel perfume, Burberry trench coats, gentile laughter and soft commentary. Churchill cigar smoke mingled with the crisp autumn air.

“Astre.” Elizabeth’s hand tightened around his. “I’ve missed you.” She confessed quietly. “Every day.”

He said nothing, focused only on the warm softness of her hand, how her callouses gently scratched against the smoothness of his own palm, the way he could feel the prominent bump of her wrist bone.

“I wrote you but you never responded. Did you ever receive my letters?”

“Every one.”

He could feel Lizzy’s pulse quickening, heard her soft, choked cry. “Then why did you—?”

“You know why.” His eyes remained fixed on their hands, how he was clinging onto her like a sailor to a life raft. “I couldn’t.”

“I only wanted to see how you were. To—to tell you things. Everything and anything. There were so many silly little things that would happen and you would be the one I wanted to tell.”

He knows. He knows all too well.

And he’s not sentimental. He reads her letters, throws most away, and keeps only a few. It’s his one indulgence—a final extravagance of the heart.

“Astre—“

“Will you still marry him?”

“I—“

“Will you?” He all but demanded.

Slowly, he felt her grip slacken, felt the way she tried to pull back but he wants to hold on—for just half a moment more. “I will.” Her whisper is so faint that Astre barely catches it.

“Why.”

“Why?” The incredulous surprise in her voice is evident. “He’s my fiancé, Astre. I promised him I would, I said _yes_ —“

“Why did you?” An irrational flare of anger suddenly shoots through him, burning his veins and forcing him to lift his gaze.

“Why did I?” Elizabeth repeated. “Because you never asked!” She finally yanked her hand away, snatching her warmth and comfort and leaving Astre cold.

“You know I couldn’t—“

“Yes,” she accused, “you _could_ have.”

“Ciel is the elder. No matter what he would have you.”

“Have me? Like a doll or a glass figurine?”

“I know you don’t like ugly things Elizabeth but try to keep up.” It’s the anger—the anger and whatever else he refuses to identify—that brutalizes his speech, makes him cruel and unfair and—

“I loved you.” She whispered. “I still—“

“ _Don’t._ ” He interrupted, looking down. Unable to take in the depth of emotion in those fathomless jade eyes. _As green and deep as the wide Sargasso Sea._ He could hear his younger self murmuring shyly, when he was fifteen and afraid and Elizabeth was the sun itself. “You won’t leave him.”

“And you won’t have me.”

“Elizabeth—

“I’m sorry,” he could hear the scraping of her chair, the swish of her coat as she grabbed it from the back of her chair. “I disrupted your schedule and called you in for a pointless meeting, didn’t I?”

“Lizzy—“ Astre glanced up, half a minute too late.

He caught her golden hair and a flash of white before she vanished from view, disappearing down the steps and out the door.

 

* * *

 

The library of Phantomhive Manor had been rebuilt in 1889 following a devastating fire that had burnt the very foundations of the country manse to the ground. Erected in its place were high, mahogany walls paneled from floor to ceiling with shelves upon shelves of tomes and novels of every kind. Turkish carpets in the hues of crimson and gold patterned the floor while furniture of luxuriant ebony and tables of the heaviest cherrywood were imported from the forests of Bulgaria. Narrow windows of stained glass were shaped in the style of the Nideros Cathedral and framed with velvet drapes in a shade of wine so dark that at dusk, they appeared almost black.

It was this gothic conclave of literature and knowledge that Ciel Phantomhive chose to meet his younger brother. ("Forget your flat. Just come to manor.")

The earl was seated in his favorite wingback armchair of vermillion red while a painting of Salome carrying the head of John the Baptist loomed over him. A coffee table made of hand carved Bubinga wood sat as a barrier between himself, his brother, and the black-haired hound.

“Little brother, I’m honored that you’ve finally deemed it fit to introduce me to your dog.” Ciel smiled in a manner that was more teeth than affection. 

Sebastian’s eye twitched.

The younger Phantomhive, more preoccupied with the tower of sweet cakes and confectionary, ignored his brother’s jab. “There’s no chocolate cake.” He glanced between Ciel and the dessert tower. “Why is there no chocolate cake?”

“Because it’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“You’ve given me a statement of time, not a reason.”

There was a hint of exasperation in Ciel’s movements as he recrossed his legs. “Because it’s been six months since my last heart murmur and I would prefer to keep it that way.”

“Wimp.” Astre huffed under his breath.

Ciel pretended he didn’t hear it. “Aside from my younger brother’s general distaste for all things healthful,” he eyed the detective, “may I inquire as to why you two are here? Surely it isn’t to interrogate me within an inch of my life as the Spanish Catholics did.”

“Well, we are here to ask you a few questions.” Sebastian, dressed all in black, looked more of a priest with his high collar and impeccably tailed suit than a common officer of the law. “The first being you thought someone was after your fiancée. That someone wished to see Miss Elizabeth dead.”

“Quite right.” Ciel waved a hand and Polaris appeared, handing his master a gilt cigarette case. “There were some disturbing missives sent to my bride-to-be and I thought it prudent—“

“Oh spare me big brother,” Astre rolled his eyes. “If there’s anyone who ought to be fearful of their lives it’s you.”

“Me?” Ciel’s expression was the epitome of innocently confused. “You’ll have to be more specific, Detective Faust. I’ve a great many enemies who would like to see my head removed from my shoulders but,” he chuckled, “you make it sound far more serious than a few attempts on my life.”

“Yes because this attempt could actually end your life.” Astre took out his cell phone, turned it off, and motioned for Sebastian to do the same. “There,” he leaned forward, elbows resting on either knee, “now, you have twenty five minutes to explain why you were having an affair with a woman whose importance in this world is so minuscule that even after being handed her case I can’t be bothered to remember her name.” Astre’s voice had gradually sharpened until his words alone could have lacerated fat from bone. “Brother?” He prompted, eyes burning with more than just perfunctory anger but full-fledged fury and blatant, unabashed disgust.

Ciel marveled at how tightly his brother’s hands were clasped together, knuckles straining against papier-mâché skin. How it looked as if the flesh would split open any minute, exposing ivory bone and thick, crimson blood.

Lifting his eyes, Ciel caught Astre’s own cobalt blue gaze. “Are you angry with me?” He inquired blandly, lighting up a crisp Marlboro. “Do you feel righteous indignation on behalf of my betrothed?”

“Perhaps if you made clear your relationship with Miss Adams?” Sebastian cut in smoothly as he leaned forward, spine straight, and expression neutral. “Lord Phantomhive?”

Ciel exhaled, allowing a pale grey plume of smoke to filter through the air like gauze and mist. “Very well,” he conceded with an unreadable expression. “I’ll comply with this inquisition but I warn you brother,” his eyes cut to Astre’s, “you won’t like my answers.”

“I don’t like you but here I am.” Astre returned icily. His expression, Ciel noted, was so like that of father when he was displeased. The shadowed look, the marble-cut sharpness of his jaw…

“My…relation with Miss Adams was no fault of Elizabeth’s,” he began, cigarette held between two fingers. “Rather, I find that dalliance to be more of a bout of foolish whimsy than anything else.”

Sebastian withdrew a small pocketbook from his coat pocket. “Who else knows?”

“What makes you think anyone does?”

“This is not a question you would answer on any interval—regular or otherwise. And in case you’ve forgotten, you’re my _twin._ I know how you think, Ciel. You wouldn’t tolerate impudence you didn’t expect. You like to control things, chaotic or otherwise. And what I’ve just said is a direct insult to everything you stand for.” The afternoon light turned Astre’s eyes into the coldest shade of Pacific blue. “Your response is far too rehearsed, big brother.”

“Is it?” He brought the cigarette to his lips. “Pillars of salt, Astre. Those are what your assumptions currently stand on.”

“Then let me exchange those pillars for walls of iron.” He withdrew a dark manilla folder from the briefcase by his ankles. “This,” he tossed the folder onto the table. “Tell me if that isn’t the handiwork of a Phantomhive.”

The faint sound of a cigarette being tapped on an ashtray was all that was heard. “Do you expect me to read that?” Ciel inquired pointedly.

“Well if you’ve forgotten how to read I’m sure Sebastian can recite it out loud.”

“Enough, little brother.” A tendril of smoke appeared, blurring the earl’s features and making the blue of his eyes look almost sinister in the ashen light. “Put down your sword and crown and I shall do the same. We’ll speak without pretense for an afternoon.”

The faintest hint of a smile appeared on the younger twin’s lips. “If you so wish.” He deferred with such formality one could be forgiven in mistaking it for mockery. “Shall we begin with this then,” he leaned over, pulling out a document that bore a blurred picture of one Delilah Adams. “You got her a job with the New York Ballet Company. Why?”

“That’s a bit of an obvious question.” 

“Answer it.”

“If you insist,” Ciel sighed. Outside, the afternoon was beginning to grow dim. “I needed to get Miss Adams out of the country and this was the quickest possible method.” 

“Had your fiancée discovered your affair?” Sebastian continued the line of questioning as Astre sat there, watching. Waiting.

The earl shook his head as he tapped the residual ash from his Marlboro. “No, Elizabeth was—is—unaware. She’s far too innocent to ever suppose such things.”

“Then why the haste? You could have kept Miss Adams around as your mistress for god knows how long and no one would’ve noticed.” Sebastian rested his cheek on his hand. “But you instead raised quite a bit of suspicion over at the Yard by sending Miss Adams away so abruptly—and with an aftermath of murder in her wake.”

“Well there was the matter of her engagement—“

“Engagement?” Astre snatched another macaron from the dessert tower.

“To a nonentity,” Ciel informed dismissively. “Quinten Jones? I suppose it was fortunate they died together. Goodness knows he didn’t deserve a woman like Miss Adams.”

“Yes, honorable are the adulterers.” Astre had never cared much for such petty sins but the fact that Lizzy was involved was another matter entirely.

His brother looked less than remorseful. “We all do as we must. Surely even you know that by now.”

“The point is,” Astre redirected, “you now have a direct connection to two of the victims. You and your company are the sole link between Richard Bryton, Philip Loudain, and Andrew Carlisle.” He leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “And there is the matter of Victoria Queene…”

A hint of apprehension veiled his twin’s eyes. “Indeed?”

“We found absolutely no direct deals with Albert Alexandrina yet you seem to be phoning her at regular intervals.” Astre pulled a slip of paper from his inside jacket pocket.

Ciel’s eyes narrowed. “What hypothesis have you conjured this time?”

“No hypothesis.” He tapped the letter against his left hand as if it were a cleaver to be bloodied.

Beside him, Sebastian allowed the faintest cut of a smile to appear on his bloodless mouth. “I found a rather intriguing missive while combing through Funtom’s archives, Earl Phantomhive. It didn’t in any way incriminate you directly but the subject matter was rather troubling. As such, I brought it to the attention of your ever faithful brother in the hopes that would provide you with some sort of relief.”

“How thoughtful.” The earl’s voice was as smooth and frozen the Amsterdam canal. “If I may?” He held out his hand, palm open.

Out of the corner of his eye Sebastian caught the slightest hint of a smile more that was more demonic than human on his employer’s face. “I’d rather you not.”

“I must insist.”

“You can insist until you’re blue in the face but we both know what this letter contains. The fact of the matter is, you could have gone to the police with this piece of blackmail and Victoria Queene would have been indicted. Albert Alexandrina was already failing at the time this was written. She would’ve collapsed into nothing.” Astre adjusted his cufflink. “But you didn’t. My pragmatic, efficient older brother. You let a competitor survive.”

“She’s hardly competition.” A sneer distorted the ivory beauty of the earl’s countenance. “A minor irritation is all she—and that letter—is.”

“So why not eliminate the ‘irritation’ altogether? After all, you’re an upstanding, tax paying London resident. And this letter,” a humorless chuckle escaped the detective’s throat, “is little more than falsehood, is it not?”

“Let me read it and I shall confirm your theory.” The strain in his brother’s voice was clear—as was Polaris’s move forward.

“No need for violence, big brother. After all, extramarital affairs are rather potent in fueling the downfalls of great men.”

Silence, as heady as the perfumed sighs of a Shangri-La brothel, descended upon them.

“So you’re already aware.” Ciel’s voice was strained.

“Quite.” Astre returned. “But Delilah Adams is, as you called her, _a bout of foolish whimsy._ You could have paid her off. Made her disappear. This note would have carried little to no weight. Lust is hardly the greatest sin a Phantomhive could commit yet you allowed this single mistake to color everything that’s happened since.” The unrelenting harshness that had made Astre famous as the Queen’s Watchdog—the fiend despised by culprits of every murderous design—pierced through the library with a brutality that extinguished all ties of brotherhood. “You could have paid off Victoria Queene. Destroyed her in a week or so. But you _didn’t._ ”

“Is there a point to all this?”

“You’re hiding more an affair, Ciel.” There was no accusation in his voice. It was simply a statement—a given. A truth finally acknowledged. “And whatever it is, you’re allowing it to destroy a legacy that’s over a hundred years old. For the first time in 120 years, we _broke even_ Ciel. We _failed_ to turn a profit.”

“Have you forgotten that we’ve only recently suffered a recession—?”

“Spare me. We weathered the Great Depression with all the pomp and finery of J.P. Morgan and twice as that of Rockefeller.” Astre’s eyes darkened. “There is blood on your hands and usually I wouldn’t bat an eye. How many people has father eliminated in an effort to preserve the company? To preserve our legacy? How many innocents did grandmother discard? Quite frankly, I wouldn’t even consider this investigation as anything more than a trivial matter but you are now condemning the very name you accuse _me_ of disgracing by working for Scotland Yard. I know father’s unaware—or he just thinks you’re taking care of this mess.”

“Astre—“

“But really,” dark amusement coated his voice, “How long do you think you can keep this from grandfather?”

“That’s enough.” Ciel stood taller than Astre by a good three inches and now, illuminated by the setting sun, his features became grotesque—twisted and shadowed as his sapphire eyes blazed with unsuppressed fury. “Get out.”

“We’re not done.” Astre rose from his seat, an expression of cold defiance hardening the softer aspect of his own face. “Do you know how much exposure corporate scandals entail? Do you know what would be exposed to the public?” His voice was a harsh whisper—a condemnation of reason for the most selfish of reasons. “Every single thing we’ve worked so hard to achieve would be turned and examined under a _microscope._ ” He hissed, haughty and cruel and wanting these words to wound and lacerate. “We would fall. Every single one of us. And Funtom…” a twisted burst of laughter escaped Astre’s throat. “Funtom would be nothing more than another WorldCom. The next Enron. We would collapse into nothing, just as the Vanderbilts did.”

Ciel looked away.

“Do you _understand—_ “

“This is beyond you, Astre.”

“Beyond me?” He repeated, disbelief slashing through what remnants of courtesy he had left in him. “You’re the one crumbling the very foundations Funtom was built on!” Astre could no longer keep the accusation from his voice. “Have you seen the numbers, Ciel? We could weather another year—perhaps half a dozen—but if this goes on, if these reckless, _irrational_ investments continue we _will_ go bankrupt. And at the rate you’re investing, we’ll have the SEC on our backs too and oh, let’s not forget our American interests. What of the branch companies, hm? We have a conglomerate, Ciel, or have you forgotten?” He glared, nails digging into his palms to keep from rushing forward. “What of our oil? We import from 27 countries. We have refineries in 15. What of the pipelines, the wholesale fuels, the aviation, the petrochemicals—“

“What do you want me to say?” Ciel finally snapped and, in three quick strides crossed the room, one hand coming to shove his brother back half a step. “Give it a rest. I have things handled. Perhaps it may not look that way to you now but you’ve always been terribly impatient. I’m playing the long game and in case you’ve forgotten,” he hissed, “you gave up all shares to Funtom when you betrayed our family.”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“You left us,” he accused sharply, “for what? For _Scotland Yard?_ That piece of shit agency father practically owns?”

“Unlike you I made my own way in the world—“

“Hah! Father bought you your position, don’t deny it—“

“Just like he bought your entry into Cambridge?” Astre interrupted. “Don’t pretend big brother. We both know you aren’t half so honest as to get accepted the traditional way. You despise hard labor.”

“I’m a _Phantomhive._ Why tire myself with menial tasks when I can have others do them for me?”

“Taking college entrance exams is usually considered a necessity, not a menial task.”

“Then father never taught you anything.”

Astre’s eyes narrowed. “He taught me enough to distinguish a poor business deal from a good one.”

Ciel’s jaw ticked ever so slightly—almost imperceptibly.

 _I’m getting to him,_ Astre watched as his brother struggled to regain control—to ignore his barbs and provocations but it was easy, so easy, to rile Ciel up when one knew where the chinks in his armor were hidden.

“Perhaps,” he circled Ciel, like a vulture towards a carcass. “I made a mistake. I should have never left Funtom—after all,” he sneered, “with you at the helm I wouldn’t be surprised if you had to pawn off mother’s jewels just to pay off the operational expenses. Perhaps all your late nights were spent prostituting yourself for half a paycheck too—“

Blood flooded Astre’s mouth as he stumbled back half a dozen steps, leg catching against the coffee table from the force of his brother’s slap. The heavy Phantomhive ring Ciel wore cut clean through the younger twin’s lower lip. A bruise, he knew, was already beginning to form on the left side of his lower jaw.

The detective coughed, blood trickling down his chin.

He could see that the cuffs of Ciel’s bespoke suit jacket had been stained crimson and that the cool detachment of his brother’s face had morphed—becoming hideous and grotesque in its furious desperation. “Get out.” His brother all but ordered, voice trembling in an effort to keep from screaming. 

“Gladly,” Astre smiled, using a handkerchief to wipe away the blood. “But you’ll be coming with us.”

“If you think—“

“Striking an officer is a direct violation of section 89 of the 1996 Police Act.” The smirk could no longer be contained, even as Astre felt his lower jaw swelling. “It is a criminal offense to assault a constable in the execution of his duty, brother of mine. You’re facing six months in jail and a £5,000 fine.” 

Ciel was unfazed. “If you think _that_ holds any weight—“ 

“Oh I know,” Astre cut in as Sebastian stood up. “There’s no way in hell or heaven you’ll be sitting in a cell for six months. But that doesn’t matter. I only need three days.” 

A shadow of a smile appeared on Ciel's lips. “Confident are we?” 

“Doesn’t really matter what I’m feeling.” He shrugged, nodding at Sebastian to step forward. “I just know you’ll be spending tonight in prison and—I do believe that under this arrest I have the right to search both your office and your home.” 

“Go ahead,” the earl held out his wrists. “I suppose you deserve a minor victory.” 

“My lord—“ Polaris approached. 

“No,” Ciel shook his head. “Telephone Elizabeth for me.” He turned, eyes meeting Astre’s. “Tell her I’ve been held up.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- "...letting investors gamble with Funtom's stock." This is actually what Enron CFO Andy Fastow allowed investment banks to do. He created complex limited partnerships that were nothing more than false entities designed to allow Enron to stash its debt off the books. By doing so he convinced big name banks like J.P. Morgan, Goldman Sachs, Deutsche Bank, etc to invest in Enron's "limited partners" by giving them Enron stock as collateral. In doing so Fastow defrauded Enron of over $30 million. (I actually based a lot of Funtom's malpractices on Enron so you see any similarities between what Ciel's doing and the crimes of Enron, this is why XD) 
> 
> \- Lucrezia Borgia: the illegitimate daughter of Pope Alexander VI. History remembers her as the golden-haired femme fatale who wore a hollow ring filled with cantarella, a deadly poison similar to arsenic. 
> 
> A/N: Suuuuper long chapter but things are melding together! 
> 
> And for those wondering the Midfords are just as wealthy and prominent as the Phantomhives. Alexis Leon Midford is the chairman and chief executive of Midford Knight Enterprises, one of the world’s largest security conglomerates based in Dover, Delaware. As a result Lizzy is an American in this fic; she and Edward (who manages the English branch of Midford Knight Enterprises) just happen to live in London. 
> 
> Once again I’m so blown away by the support you guys have been giving this fic ♡ I thank you so much for your willingness to read this (admittedly bizarre) AU scenario and not thinking I’m crazy XD 
> 
> As always please leave your thoughts below! I read each and every comment and become ridiculously excited when I hear what you guys have to say!


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